


Leather and Chrome

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Series: Refraction [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Established Relationship, Fluff, Leather Kink, M/M, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunshine, leather gloves, a Harley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather and Chrome

**Author's Note:**

> As always, special thanks to the best collaborators, co-conspirators, and betas ever! Alphabetically, they are: CousinCecily, Jennybel75, Mitaya, and Snogandagrope.

“Do you trust me?”

Q stared at the outstretched length of thick black fabric — or tried to. Despite the warmth of a fleece-lined leather jacket, he shivered in a way that sent mixed signals to his poor, overloaded brain.

The problem was not as obvious as it might have seemed, at first glance. Yes, an MI6 secret agent — one with a licence to kill — was attempting to put a blindfold on him, despite knowing his paralyzing fear of the dark and the unknown. And yes, that MI6 secret agent was covered practically head to toe in leather, from his boots to his trousers to his jacket, all of it fitted so perfectly that Q was convinced they’d be causing traffic accidents throughout southern England.

No. None of that was the problem. In fact, all of that just served to distract Q enough that he could still breathe, still think, still generally function well enough to not just surrender and let the aforementioned MI6 agent do absolutely anything he wanted.

The problem, as it turned out, was the fact that this particular secret agent was wearing gloves. Black leather gloves meant for a day out on a motorcycle, stretched tight over his hands.

The gloves hadn’t been there just two minutes earlier, when Bond had turned to the cupboard and taken out the jacket that now strained across his shoulders and hung down to his hips. Q knew this for a fact because he’d been watching, regretting the necessity of covering up the absolutely sinful T-shirt, one that had faded from black to charcoal with too many washings, most of them in hot water, judging by how the cotton had shrunk to hug every curve of bicep and pectoral in a way that made Q dizzy just thinking about it. He’d watched the flex and stretch of muscles in Bond’s left arm as he’d reached into the cupboard and removed the jacket with a bare, strong, callused hand. He’d watched as Bond swung the jacket around, easing it over his arms, and settled it in place with a few tugs.

Admittedly, Q might have got distracted somewhere around that moment by the leather hugging Bond’s absolutely perfect arse. But it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before Bond turned around, folded black cloth in his hands, and Q’s brain just... stopped.

 _Those gloves_ , he thought, heart pounding.

“I bought a surprise,” Bond had said the previous night. “It’ll be delivered tomorrow. I’m taking you out on it, and then _taking you_ on it. Any objections?”

“None, as long you let me look it over thoroughly and bring my toolkit with me.”

Bond had just laughed, and then kissed him into almost forgetting all about this ‘surprise’ — obviously the motorcycle he’d been hinting at for the last three months.

And this morning, Q had happily dressed in old jeans and work boots left over from his youth and then watched as Bond absolutely covered his body in leather. And not stuff bought new for the occasion. No, this was all leather he’d owned for _years_. Worn, too.

Now, he finally managed to wrench his eyes away from the gloved fingers clenched around black fabric. The slick, cool drag of leather on skin painted his imagination with sinful thoughts that he might well have just found an exception to his no-clothing rule.

Still, it wouldn’t do to let Bond know just how deeply he’d been affected. He glared at Bond as a warning and took off his glasses. “If you let go of me even once while I have that on...” He trailed off threateningly as he leaned into the blindfold. He _did_ trust Bond, but no need to express it — not when it meant that those leather gloves would be carefully, constantly, gloriously sliding across his skin as Bond put the blindfold on him.

At the first touch, two fingers brushing over his cheek, he shivered. His jeans went from uncomfortable to dangerously tight, and he bit his lip to keep from saying anything — or perhaps just making an incoherent sound or two. Not even the kiss that followed made him shiver quite so much, though Bond’s laugh — his wicked, sensual, knowing laugh — did.

He tied the blindfold at the back of Q’s head, and Q actually breathed a bit easier. He could see an edge of light from underneath. Fabric pushed against his eyelashes, but he knew the thick fabric would come loose if he tugged or even tossed his head hard enough. This wasn’t a blindfold meant for BDSM play or even an elastic sleep mask; it was just some piece of cloth Bond had found.

Well, no. It felt like fucking silk. Knowing Bond, it probably was.

After Bond secured the knot, one hand slipped down Q’s hair and then brushed past the strands to cover his nape, leather-to-skin. This time, Q did whimper, and Bond laughed softly in response.

The feel of Bond’s gloved hands was short-circuiting him. Q’s mind kicked into overdrive as he focused on what they’d _be_ doing, rather than what they _were_ doing. “You know what I like about motorbikes? Much smaller number of parts, and generally a higher quality manufacture. With regular inspection and care —”

“You talk too much,” Bond interrupted, his hand tightening on the back of Q’s neck. “Would you rather stand here and talk, or shall we get on with the morning?”

Q huffed in false irritation and turned in Bond’s arms. He reached up and tugged the deliciously gloved hands to his waist. He pressed in close, nudging Bond’s neck with the tip of his nose to find his way up to Bond’s ear. Once he found it, he nipped and had the immense pleasure of feeling Bond shiver against him.

And oh god, yes — strong, cool gloved fingers slipped up under his shirt, leather dragging over bare skin. This was Bond’s familiar, comforting touch filtered through an unexpectedly new lens, firing nerves in a way that threatened to make Q forget all about this ‘surprise’ of Bond’s.

But Bond had been doing a poor job of covering his excitement over the last three months. This was important to him, and Q could afford to wait. (Of course, it helped that he’d be pressed up close against Bond’s body once they were actually on the motorcycle, so...)

Q leaned in to whisper, “Don’t let go,” before stepping back, relaxed, waiting to be led.

Bond exhaled and pulled Q close against his side. As though drawn, his hand moved up Q’s back. He pulled the thick jacket away and dipped his fingers down into the neck of Q’s T-shirt, sliding down bare skin to the tattoo — _Bond’s_ tattoo, the 007-and-Walther design. Now several weeks into the healing process, it was only slightly raised and slightly more sensitive than the rest of his skin.

Q was torn between leaning into the touch, wanting to know how leather would feel against it, and leaning away in order to avoid an unpleasant sting. He chose the former, gently leaning into the pressure, and was rewarded with nerve endings sparking, not unpleasantly, at the smooth slide of the gloves on oversensitive skin. Then his mind inevitably wandered to how the gloves would feel over _other_ oversensitive skin.  The sound of his backpack, presumably being slung over Bond’s other shoulder, snapped him out of it, and they began walking.

Bond guided him carefully, murmuring, “Door,” as a warning before he paused. After a creak of hinges, Bond led him out into the hallway, where Q felt just a bit foolish. What if someone saw? He giggled to himself, letting his nervousness take over for a brief moment. One such thought stopped him, and he laid his hand on Bond’s chest to halt him.

“You have my glasses, right?”

“I do,” Bond said. And then, because he knew Q so well, he reached out to touch the glasses to Q’s free hand. “I’ll carry them so they don’t break.”

Then they waited for the lift, and Bond’s gloved hand moved up further to playfully tug at his hair. When Q heard the lift doors open, Bond guided him inside. A moment later, the doors slid closed.

Before the lift even began its descent, Bond’s hands cupped Q’s face, holding him in gentle contrast to the sudden, hard press of his body shoving Q back into the wall. Bond captured his surprised gasp with a quick, hot kiss, hips pushing hard against Q.

“One of these days, I want you in here,” Bond growled into Q’s skin, moving his lips to cover Q’s jaw with sharp nips and soft kisses. “Just press the emergency stop button and fuck you right against the cold steel doors so that you remember it every time you go to work in the morning and come home at night.”

“As lovely a mental image as that is, I think I’ve hit my exhibitionist quota for a few months with that little stunt over Tanner’s desk.” Q hesitated, but before he could fully allow his logical brain to override his propensity for nervous chatter, he found himself letting slip a secret he’d held for awhile. “I kept an eye on those video files, you know. I don’t know if I ever told you, but Moneypenny accessed them the, uh, day after.”

To his surprise, Bond laughed. “Probably wanted a keepsake.” He leaned in and brushed his lips over the curve of Q’s ear, right below the blindfold. “She was watching us that night — just for a minute.”

Q groaned, letting his head fall forward. “And here I was hoping it was because I’d miscoded the time. No wonder she grins like a loon when I mention you.”

The lift shuddered. As the doors opened, Bond said cheerily, “We could always invite her to watch, next time. Or join in, if you’d like.” He pulled Q away from the wall to lead him out into the building lobby.

“I’d punch you in the shoulder if I thought my aim was any good at this point,” Q muttered, visions of spinning like a cartoon character and falling to the floor coming to mind. “No.”

“She’d enjoy it. And it’s always good to have someone in her position owe a favour or two,” Bond pointed out seriously, though Q could hear the slightest hint of a mad grin in his voice. Of course, Bond’s mad grins usually came when he thought he had a _good_ idea.

Q briefly thought about reminding Bond how he felt about _girl_ parts, but decided on a different, probably more effective tactic. “You know, her hands are much smaller than yours. I bet she could trace every one of the wires on my side and back without going outside the lines.” Right on cue, Bond’s arm tightened, crushing Q against his side as they walked across the lobby. “And girls are more gentle about that sort of thing, I’ve heard.” He made sure to inject false thoughtfulness into his voice.

“Or we could just lock the bloody door to Tanner’s office and let her sit on the other side of the glass,” Bond said. He was, Q guessed, no longer grinning, and now Q could imagine the possessive, intense fire in his eyes. He lifted a hand to trace Bond’s lips and jaw just to confirm the suspicion; Bond nipped at his fingertip in response.

“That’s true, too. I wonder if she’d be counting all the wires, trying to figure out what the ends of them are. Do you think the one down past my hip —” He was cut off by Bond pulling him around, crushing him hard against an absolutely unyielding chest so Bond could steal another kiss.

“One more word, and I’m going to have to burn down Medical on the off chance that they have records of your tattoos,” Bond threatened once he released Q. He sounded as breathless as Q felt.

Saying anything, including ‘It was your bloody idea, genius’ seemed likely to ruin the moment, so Q, for once, kept quiet. He wrapped his hands around Bond’s wrist and chuckled instead. As occasionally annoying as Bond’s possessiveness could be (case in point: the barber’s, or a massage parlour), it did have its uses. 

Again, showing surprising consideration, Bond warned, “Front doors now; watch the steps,” before he opened one of the heavy glass doors. Q tried not to think about the time and schedule the doorman worked or what he’d think with Bond looking like he ran a biker gang and Q was the victim of a kidnapping or something. And that was the 18-and-under version.

It was windy and cool outside without being icy. Q wondered if Bond had arranged delivery of the motorcycle (presumably a Harley Davidson, but Q hadn’t managed to find out any specifics) for a bright, sunny day with little chance of rain, just to soothe Q’s fears of an accident. He wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Last step down,” Bond murmured as they reached the pavement. They made it four steps before Bond took his arm from around Q’s shoulders, trailed his hand down Q’s sleeve, and clasped his hand. As promised, not once did he break contact with Q. “Take this,” he said, and with his other hand, he gave Q the backpack.

Q’s arm was tugged down by the comforting weight of the backpack, loaded with his favourite tools and whatever Bond was bringing for their excursion. A dozen questions flashed through his mind — _where are we going, what route are we taking, what did you bring, are we stopping anywhere_ — but he merely swung the pack up to his shoulder and gripped Bond’s hand harder. The blindfold was a big step for him, and he didn’t want to ruin it with questions that Bond would probably interpret as reluctance.

Then someone else approached them, asking, “Mr. Bond?”

“What gave it away?” Bond asked dryly. Q heard the rustle of his jacket, as if he were taking something from a pocket — presumably not the built-in holster where he was carrying an illegal weapon.

The other man chuckled and said, “Sign here, please.” A moment later, Q heard a metallic chime, like keys rattling, and the man said, “She’s a beauty. Enjoy her.”

“We definitely will,” Bond said, and a moment later, the man’s footsteps faded. Gently, Bond turned Q to face him, and pressed a key and remote fob into his free hand. Somewhat uncertainly, he said, “I don’t know — If you want a set — Here.”

Q flashed back to their first night together, when Bond had declared Q lucky to get a look at the inner-workings of his car, and had talked about the Aston Martin as if it were a lover. Reliable, beautiful machines had probably been Bond’s one constant in a life of betrayal and brokenness. Q understood immediately what Bond was offering — these keys were as much to his heart as to the motorcycle itself.

Q grinned, dropped the pack, and took the keys. “Don’t let go,” he warned one more time before turning, hands out, to feel for the Harley. Bond guided him the two steps before his fingertips encountered cold metal. He ran his hands reverently over steel, chrome, and leather, letting his overdeveloped sense of touch feed him data.

Bond’s hand stayed on him as he explored the bike. Through the underside of the blindfold, he caught glimpses of bronze metallic and glossy black paint. His fingertips traced the logo and lettering. Bond even followed him down to a crouch as he explored the engine. The bike was cool, chrome slick under his fingertips.

And Bond had bought it with him in mind, he thought as he felt his way back and up to the passenger seat and saddlebags. This wasn’t meant for a solo ride, but for Q to share.

“Twin cam 103 engine. Anniversary edition? She’s lovely. And maybe, some day, I could do some mods...”

“We can keep her in your lab when we’re not taking her out,” Bond promised, moving between Q and the Harley. He set Q’s hand against his jacket and let go. Q heard him fussing with the bike, before he said, “You can switch out the blindfold for this. Oh, and here.” He turned and pressed the hard curve of a helmet against Q’s chest, and tapped Q’s glasses against his free hand.

Q hesitated. Part of him wanted to rip off the blindfold without hesitation, returning him to light and unencumbered perception. Another, if smaller, part of him was deeply enjoying the sensation of allowing his hands and fingers doing the exploring — “seeing” everything through touch. His trust in Bond made it less an act of waiting to be ambushed, and more an act of exploration. 

Besides, he lived to surprise Bond with sneak attacks of intimacy. 

Instead of taking his glasses, he took the helmet, giving them each one hand free, and reached up to touch Bond’s face, finding his lips. He leaned in for one last blindfolded kiss and caught Bond’s free hand, guiding it to his waist.

With a soft, satisfied growl, Bond got his gloved hand up under Q’s shirt. He leaned back, bracing against the sturdy Harley, and dragged Q along with him until Q was pressed close from hips to chests, straddling Bond’s legs.

After one last nip on Q’s lips, Bond asked, “Ever been arrested for public indecency?”

Q laughed and stepped back, carefully pulling off the blindfold. “Was that rhetorical, or do you actually want to know?” Bond’s startled look had him bursting out into genuine laughter as he squinted against the sudden assault of light. Q took his glasses and asked, “Am I going to look ridiculous in this helmet?”

“Everyone looks ridiculous in the bloody things, but I’d really rather not shoot the first cop who tries to arrest us,” Bond said. He turned and deliberately leaned over to retrieve a second helmet from where it was locked over the other saddlebag. “Not with your criminal record, at any rate,” he added slyly.

Amused, Q put on the glasses and helmet, feeling just a bit ridiculous. Then he leaned down and picked up the backpack, which he was able to fit easily into one of the two saddlebags that unlocked with his new key.

Bond, bastard that he was, just climbed onto the bike and lounged there, looking for all the world like London’s most badass criminal — at least on the wealthier end of the scale. 

Despite the small amount of muscle Q had managed to put on — thanks to Bond’s demands that Q join him in some of his fitness routines — he couldn’t do much more than climb onto the bike like a baby giraffe might. He swung his leg up and over, narrowly avoiding kicking Bond, while bracing himself with his arms. “If you laugh at me, Bond...” he muttered, trying to scrape together what little grace he had left to perch behind Bond without falling off. Fortunately, the seat was designed to fit two passengers comfortably, and Q settled easily.

Bond produced sunglasses from inside his jacket. He put them on, followed by his helmet, and then started the engine. ‘Obscene’ was the only thing that came to Q’s mind as he rested his hands on Bond’s body, thinking of just how that engine would sound once he added a few modifications. And there were other things he could do — secure comms in the helmets, recharged through the locking mount; weapons concealed in the saddlebags, possibly the body, if there was room by the gas tank; defence capabilities in terms of smoke or oil slicks. Lovely, endless possibilities, and every single one of them came and went, dislodged from Q’s thoughts by Bond’s words.

 _I’m taking you on it_.

Q’s hands tightened on Bond’s body as he thought, _yes_.

 

~~~

 

Q wasn’t surprised when their midday stop was at a small farmhouse-turned-restaurant three hours outside London. Bond’s obsession with feeding Q had been established on day one, after all. But he was surprised when, instead of driving the Harley into a convenient copse of trees or out into a deserted field, Bond turned them around and headed back to London. Without shouting, though, Q had no hope of his inquiry being heard, and Bond apparently felt no need to clue him in on his plans, so Q just sat back and enjoyed the surprisingly good day. He’d had a couple of bad moments when Bond’s reckless nature took the handlebars, but even then his fear had been reflexive rather than overwhelming.

But when he recognised the parking garage that led to one of the MI6 tunnel entrances a quarter mile from the building, he had to speak up.

“I thought we worked past the Moneypenny idea, Bond?” he all but shouted to be heard over the engine’s roar. At least if Bond pulled in for work, maybe Q could distract him with sex. As much as he would like to believe they were headed towards his lab, Q didn’t actually have his ID card on him, and Bond’s access could only get him so far into Q Branch’s labyrinth.

Bond just laughed and steered the bike down a level, to a bored-looking security guard whose cheap polyester uniform covered Q-Branch-issued Kevlar body armour, and who had a .50 calibre machine gun mounted under his desk. The man’s brows shot up and he gaped as Bond’s right hand dipped into his leather jacket, emerging with two MI6 ID cards. He handed them both through the window for scanning and pulled off his helmet.

Q took off his own helmet and stared for a moment at Bond, processing. _Of course_ Bond had planned this. But Q didn’t know which of Bond’s probably plentiful ideas was more arousing — burning off the tension of having been pressed cock to arse for hours in a row, turning Q loose to tinker with the Harley, or — better yet — one followed by the other. Naked the whole time. Q thought again of the gloves and shivered in anticipation.

The guard finally offered back the ID cards, saying, “You’re, uh, you’re cleared of course, sir,” as he looked not to Bond but to Q. To Bond, he added, “This is a restricted entrance, Agent Bond —”

“Do you expect a branch head to walk the half mile to the office?” Bond interrupted. “I’m his driver. Security detail. You don’t think I’m dressed like this for fun, do you?”

Q desperately tried to keep his face neutral. “It was all I could to do to convince him a suit and tie would be out of place on this, so it’s best you don’t press the issue.”

“I could just shoot him for you, sir,” Bond offered blandly over his shoulder.

“Do you have any idea how much that Kevlar costs to replace?” he pretended to snap, even as his hands, safely hidden under Bond’s jacket, clenched at Bond referring to him as ‘sir’. He needed to find a way to coax Bond into saying it again, preferably when they were both alone and far less covered up.

Bond grinned. “What’ll it be then?” he asked the guard. “Replacing Kevlar or the security gate? I don’t think either’s very economical — Good choice,” he assured the white-faced man as the gate came up.

And then, because Bond could be a right arse sometimes, he twisted around, back to the guard, and smirked at Q as he hooked his helmet onto the locking point over the saddlebag. He was still wearing his sunglasses despite the darkness of the underground garage.

Q looked down at the helmet in his hands, quickly trying to decide to put it back on and thus avoid the (admittedly small) chance he’d be injured the short drive to the lab, or leaving it off in order to avoid yet another filter between him and the dark of the tunnels. He ultimately decided in favour of trusting Bond’s driving skills — not facing any other traffic made it an easy decision — and stowed the helmet with the saddle bags.

Bond gave the guard a cheeky wave and let the engine roar as he started forward, making Q cringe even though he knew the gears were designed to withstand some level of abuse. He had a momentary flashback to some of Bond’s more colourful after action reports — the ones involving motorbikes and stairwells and in one case no less than three moving boats and pallets as makeshift jumping ramps. God, he hoped Bond wasn’t going to show off by taking the bike up and down the stairs right to Q’s office.

But Bond was either feeling unusually civilised or he had a plan. Or, Q reflected as Bond turned to the vehicle lab outside the motorpool, Bond was simply saving the grand entrance for a day when the office would be crowded.

He did pull the bike right up onto the walkway, weaving between concrete pillars to bring Q right to the scanner by the doors leading into the lab. “No need to open the roll-up door,” Bond told him. “I can take us down the hallway.”

“I’m not about to let you drive your bloody motor—”

“Our.”

“—cycle — What?”

“ _Our_ bloody motorcycle,” Bond said, looking back at him, his eyes unreadable behind his dark glasses.

“The things I’m going to do to you.” Q grinned. “It, I mean. No, I mean you. And it.”

“I’m sorry, love. You’re a bit too clever for me with that. Was there an actual sentence in there?” Bond asked innocently.

Q could admit defeat, but not gracefully; instead of saying anything further to bury himself deeper in his verbal muck, he leaned forward and bit the back of Bond’s ear. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but left his head buried in Bond’s neck.

Bond laughed and reached back, deliberately — of course it was deliberate — running his hand up the inside of Q’s right thigh before he ‘found’ Q’s hand instead. He wrapped his fingers around Q’s wrist, body-warm leather against oversensitive skin, and leaned away from the bike to press Q’s hand to the scanner. Shivering at the press of fingers over his pulse, Q didn’t even find it in him to object to tyre-marks on the hallway leading past the vehicle labs.

At the far end of the hallway, Bond stopped outside the small vehicle dyno lab — the one, Q noted with a sudden quickening of breath, that _didn’t_ have a viewing window. Expectantly, Bond looked back and said, “Well, Quartermaster?”

Q carefully shifted, leaning forward to press his hand against the scanner. He held onto Bond tighter under the obvious pretense of not wanting to fall off with the effort, letting his fingers dig into Bond’s side. “Nice choice of lab. If you only knew the things I’ve detonated in here... They used to have a viewing window, actually, until an incident with a stick of bubblegum explosive and a micro version of a rocket launcher.”

Bond looked back at him before he huffed and guided the motorcycle carefully through the open door. “Here I was going to ask you not to scratch the paint,” he said, standing to help balance the bike as he eased it to the centre of the lab. Behind them, the door latched closed.

The lab was sized for the smallest vehicles, from motorcycles to Minis, and rarely used. The entire Double O section would revolt en masse if put anywhere near a Mini, and budgetary concerns rarely allowed Q Branch to work on motorcycles; the Double O’s generally thought of bikes as disposable.

There was even less chance that they’d be disturbed here, especially on a weekend, than that one day in the firing range.

As soon as they were in the middle of the lab, Bond turned off the engine and twisted around. He dropped his keys into his pocket and took off his sunglasses. The way he threw them aside was Q’s only warning before he wrapped his arms around Q and pulled him half out of his seat and across his leg, braced against the floor.

All thoughts of disabling security systems flew out of Q’s mind as he was completely enveloped in the smell of leather on the warmth of Bond’s body and mouth. He let himself be breathlessly kissed until Bond’s hands came around with the obvious intent of working on his clothes. He pushed back just hard enough to break the kiss without actually dislodging him from Bond’s lap. “The cameras might be heavily armoured, but they’re still here. Just give me —”

Bond’s right hand slid between their bodies, interfering with Q’s efforts to pull up his T-shirt without first taking off the jacket. Still gloved, his hand emerged holding the gun, and he lifted his head, murmuring, “Cover your ears.”

Q had just enough time to clap his hands to his ears and duck before Bond extended his hand and fired two quick, deafening shots. Then he holstered the gun, despite the heat of the muzzle, and pulled Q’s fleece-lined jacket sharply off his shoulders, tangling it over his hands.

“No cameras,” Bond said, and went right for Q’s neck.

For one second, Q thought about decibels and gunshot detectors and the soundproofing in a dyno lab meant to test racing engines. When he decided they were safe, he fought free out of his jacket, pushed Bond back, and glared. “I thought we agreed about the whole gun kink issue, Bond! Keep it in reach, sure, but just whipping it out and shooting it off when you’re supposed to be kissing me —”

Bond’s efforts to restrain his laughter finally failed. Entirely ignoring Q’s glare, he laughed and wrapped his arms around Q again, burying his face against Q’s neck. “Feel free to get me a _silenced_ illegal weapon, next time,” he said when the laughter died enough to allow him to speak. And then, perhaps because Q’s throat was conveniently close, he bit, lightly and playfully.

“Well, I might find it in me to forgive you,” Q said lightly, tipping his head back. “If you promise to make it up to me.”

“I was planning on stripping you naked, bending you over the handlebars, and licking you open until you screamed for more, but feel free to counteroffer,” Bond said, his voice perfectly steady, as he started nipping his way up Q’s pulse to his ear.

Q made thoughtful humming sounds as he pretended to think about it, though he was sure Bond would noticed the blush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. “Well,” he said, leaning back far enough to meet Bond’s eyes. “Tell you what. Keep the gloves on and we’ll call it a deal.”

Bond’s eyes widened just enough for Q to feel a surge of triumph at having surprised him. Then he smirked in that cocky, self-satisfied way of his and answered, “Agreed. Do something about your damned boots.”

Desperately wishing he’d chosen something that he could have just slid off without having to untie, Q decided to make the best of it by pressing himself all the way forward into Bond’s body, ducking under his arm to reach down and undo the laces. “You know, this wouldn’t have been nearly as complicated...” He finally got the ties undone, and pulled the old boot and Superman sock off in one tug. “... if you had let me get them off before you...” He switched sides, repeating the action, knowing Bond’s eyes were probably fixed on the bare skin of his waist where his shirt was rucking up as he stretched. “Before you yanked me off the bike.” Finished, he sat up in triumph, now about as deeply in Bond’s space as he possibly could be while they were still clothed.

“Oh, am I keeping you from something?” Bond asked, sprawling back against the slightly elevated passenger seat. He absently tugged his jacket open, careful not to drop the gun out of its holster, and shrugged his arms out of the sleeves, leaving the jacket draped behind on the passenger seat behind him. “If you’ve got to go, by all means.”

“I am surrounded by some of my very favorite explosive compounds,” Q muttered, sliding his hands up under Bond’s t-shirt. With a predatory smile, and with his gaze fixed on Bond’s strong upper arms and chest, so clearly outlined in the sinfully tight cotton, he said, “But don’t worry, you’re my favourite.”

Bond choked on another laugh and pulled up Q’s T-shirt. “Now you’re picking up my bad lines,” he accused as Q scrambled to get rid of his glasses a half second before Bond dragged the T-shirt off him, probably making a worse mess of his hair than the helmet had. The shirt went flying as Bond — still gloved — took hold of Q’s body and pushed him back against the gas tank. He licked over Q’s left collarbone before biting, worrying the skin between his teeth before he licked again.

Q hissed in a breath and clawed at Bond’s T-shirt, tugging it up, exposing his back. Bond gave up biting long enough to let Q pull the shirt off. Then he ducked his head again, this time to lick at Q’s nipple with quick, teasing flicks of his tongue.

It was a matter of preventing settling from becoming sprawling for Q to get comfortable enough to let Bond keep moving down without pushing him off the bike. The tank was cool on his skin, and the contrast between the unmoving metal and Bond’s soft, gloved fingertips pressing down his sides was intoxicating. Reminding himself that the lab was locked and completely blocked out, he let Bond hear his appreciation in a soft groan of pleasure.

He could feel Bond’s smirk against his chest. “Three bloody months, I’ve waited to get you in here,” he complained, punctuating his words with sharp nips and kisses as he slowly moved down Q’s body. His hands were faster, following the tight muscles of his abdomen to his waist. Despite the gloves, he started on Q’s belt with no trouble. “You’ve been a right pain in the arse, Q. Tanner’s desk, the conference table up on the fourth floor, the balcony where health & safety says we’re not allowed to smoke, the bloody cafeteria after I picked the lock on the security gate. Had you everywhere but down here, in _your_ territory.” He released the belt and the top button of Q’s jeans as he lifted his head to stare at Q, entirely too intense to be at all mistaken for playful.

 _His_ territory? Q hesitated, knowing there was something under his words, something hidden that Q wasn’t quite catching. He’d had Bond over to his apartment, where he lived, so it couldn’t be... Except, of course, it was. Q had freely admitted to Bond he didn’t _really_ live there; he considered his home to be R&D. However, despite being openly in a relationship with the Double O, he’d never taken the time to give him a tour, or show him his favourite spots, or even try to bring him into the cot that he slept in more than his bed at his flat. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, of course — now, he considered Bond’s flat more his home than anywhere else, but he’d never actually _told_ Bond that.

“Well, I haven’t spent much time here after work anymore because we go home together whenever possible, so I suppose it didn’t occur to me.” Q shifted, hoping his movements clearly told Bond _‘don’t stop’_. “Besides, my cot isn’t nearly sturdy enough to withstand your sort of breaking in new places to sleep,” he remarked with a grin.

Bond’s growl might have been assent, or it might have been just a low, thoughtful noise. He went back to unzipping Q’s flies, saying, “We don’t have to be here,” before he set his mouth to Q’s abdomen to suck up a dark bruise just above his hip.

Q looked down at him sharply. “Like hell we don’t. You’ve managed to pick the time and day of the week when it’s statistically unlikely that anyone else is going to be anywhere here in Q Branch. We’re going to have screaming orgasms, then I’m going to tell you what I’d like to do to your” — Q paused and grinned down at Bond — “our Harley. Then, I’m going to show you all my favourite spots, and even if there is anyone here, they’ll leave us alone because we’ll look entirely too well fucked to speak to.”

Bond met Q’s eyes, studying him intently before whatever he saw apparently eased his worries. Then he looked down, sliding his fingertips under the waistband of Q’s pants. After their months together, Q could read Bond’s mood in the tiny crease between his brows and the tightly controlled movements of his hands.

“The tunnels aren’t my home anymore, Bond. You are.” Even as he said it, Q thought it was ridiculously sappy, and quite possibly mad if anyone else overheard him. He hoped Bond wouldn’t laugh at him, call him a fox or rabbit or some other subterranean creature, but take it as the sentiment he meant it to be. Q was still working on his emotional vocabulary.

As was Bond. In all the months they’d been together, he’d told Q _‘I love you’_ exactly twice: once so late at night that the sun was almost rising, when he’d pressed the words into Q’s skin, the sound chasing Q into sleep; the second time, after a mission where everything that could have possibly gone wrong, did, and Bond had refused to fill out a complete after action report, instead coming home for Q to sit with him through three straight nights of dreams that ended in violent thrashing. He doubted that Bond remembered either time.

But he didn’t need words to say it. Gently, he gathered Q into his arms, leaning back enough to pull Q as close as he could, and kissed him in that slow, thorough, almost lazy way that he usually saved for long after they had no energy left. Q heard what went unspoken and responded in kind, wrapping his legs around Bond’s waist with a bit of effort, trusting Bond to hold him balanced.

When Bond leaned back and met Q’s eyes, the little frown line was gone. Slowly, his lips turned up in a slight, sly smile. Carefully, Bond pushed Q back, holding him steady. “Get rid of your jeans.”

 

~~~

 

“Sorry, 009. Repeat, please,” Danielle said calmly, her voice cutting through the sound of gunfire and distant screaming like a hot knife through butter. Moneypenny shook her head in admiration; the woman had been working at MI6 longer than anyone could remember, and it showed in her adept handling of the field agents.

“I said,” 009 enunciated more clearly, before pausing to fire off two shots, “I’d really like — Oh, bugger. That was my last magazine.”

“Language, 009,” Danielle scolded sharply. “You need to hold out for another ninety seconds. The helicopter is en route.”

“Yes, ma’am,” 009 answered, and Moneypenny heard the characteristic _ting_ of a low-calibre round hitting something metallic near him.

Danielle sniffed and pressed a finger down on the squelch button. “Excitable, these young agents,” she observed to Moneypenny. “That can’t have been a .25. What’s he afraid of? A hangnail?”

“Manicures are —” Moneypenny began, before a dark shape passed through the corner of her vision.

She reacted immediately with reflexes sharpened by the memory of two attacks on headquarters. One hand went to the gun she wore under her jacket; the other was outstretched, reaching for the glass door outside the conference room. The techs working 009’s job all looked up as she passed before Danielle snapped at them to pay attention.

Moneypenny wrenched open the door, stepped out into the hall, and froze when she saw far too much black leather over far too many muscles. The jacket slung over one shoulder shifted, revealing a T-shirt that was nearly as obscene as the trousers —

 _And Q_.

She ducked back into the conference room, heat rushing to her face as she realised that Mr. Leather out there had been James Bond. Apparently, those two were no longer content to keep their dating confined to the rest of London, but had extended their territories to include the halls of Q Branch.

Her mind filled with an image of naked skin, suntanned and winter-pale, over Tanner’s desk.

The door opened abruptly, whooshing an inch past her nose, nearly making her squeak in surprise. Q walked in, utterly unruffled and calm, though every head turned to stare at the impossible-to-imagine sight of the Quartermaster out of a suit and in casual jeans and a T-shirt.

“How’s 009, Danielle?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

“Much calmer, sir, now that he’s aboard a friendly helicopter,” Danielle reported, just as unfazed.

Bond stalked in, looking thoroughly shagged but ready for more. “See something you like?” he asked Moneypenny in a low voice that was pure sex. His eyes, though, never left Q’s body.

“Oh, the things I want and can’t have,” she said under her breath.

Bond leaned in, looking directly at her long enough for her to be very, very glad a blush couldn’t be clearly seen on her skin. “Sorry, Eve. I asked, but he prefers not to share,” Bond told her, and went back to ogling his boyfriend.

The breath caught in Eve’s throat as she realised that he was serious. Of course he was bloody serious. She could picture it, too, tossing it out there so casually that he’d caught her _watching_ them shag on Tanner’s desk. God, she was going to kill him. _Again_.

Rattled, she blurted, “I’d no idea you were that delicate. A bit chilly down here for you?” She nodded at the black leather gloves Bond was still wearing.

Bond grinned like a shark.

And in Moneypenny’s ear, a soft, educated voice said, “If you aren’t familiar with the virtues of soft leather gloves, perhaps I’ll share a few suggestions at our next pub night.”

Some tiny corner of Moneypenny’s brain took the hint and ran with it. The rest of her just stared, dumbfounded, as Bond and Q walked out of the conference room. As the door closed, she heard Q say something about continuing the tour in the electronics lab. They didn’t touch, but the raw energy crackling between them was very nearly a tangible thing.

Then Danielle was there, grandmotherly and sympathetic. She patted Moneypenny’s arm and said, “009’s in safe hands. Why don’t we get a nice cup of tea, dear? You look like you could use it.”

“You know what? I really, really could.”


End file.
